It would be better to ask this other question: can the Republic exist? We suppose so, but too quickly, and the preliminary question seems quite well founded; for nature and history unite in establishing that a large, indivisible republic is an impossibility. A small number of republicans confined within the walls of a city may, no doubt, have millions of subjects: this was the case at Rome; but a great, free nation cannot exist under a republican government. This is so clear in itself that theory could disregard experience; but experience, which decides all questions in politics no less than in physics, is here in perfect accord with theory.
What could have been said to the French to get them to believe in a republic of twenty-four million men? Two things only: (1) nothing prevents us from doing what has never been seen before; (2) the discovery of the representative system makes possible for us what was impossible for our predecessors. Let us examine the strength of these two arguments.
If we were told that a die, thrown a hundred million times, has only ever shown five numbers—1, 2, 3, 4 and 5—could we believe that there was a 6 on one of the faces? Unquestionably no; and this would be as apparent to us as it would be if we had seen that one of the six faces is blank, or that one of the numbers is repeated.
Very well! let us run through history, we shall see what men call Fortune throwing the die tirelessly for four thousand years: has it ever brought about a large republic? No. So this number was not on the die.
If the world had seen a succession of new governments, we would have no right to affirm that this or that form is impossible just because it has never been seen; but it is entirely otherwise: monarchies have always been known and republics have sometimes been known. If one then wants to go into the subdivisions, one can call democracy that government in which the mass exercises sovereignty, and aristocracy that in which sovereignty belongs to a more or less limited number of privileged families.
And that is all there is to it.
The analogy of the die is, therefore, perfectly fitting: the same numbers having always come out of the horn of Fortune, we are authorised by the theory of probability to maintain that there are no others.
Let us not confuse the essences of things with their modifications: the former are unalterable and always recur; the latter change and vary the spectacle a little, at least for the multitude; for every practiced eye easily penetrates the changing garb in which eternal nature cloaks itself according to time and place.
What, for example, is special and new in the three powers which constitute the government of England—the names of Peers and that of Commons, the dress of the Lords, etc.? But the three powers, considered in an abstract manner, are found everywhere alongside a wise and lasting liberty; they are found especially in Sparta, where before Lycurgus the government was always in turmoil, inclining now to tyranny when the royals had too much power, and then to popular confusion when the common people came to usurp too much authority. But Lycurgus placed between them the senate, “which was,” as Plato says, “a salutary counter-weight … and a strong barrier holding the two extremities in equal balance, and putting the state of public affairs on a firm footing, because the senators … at one time ranged themselves on the side of the kings when there was a need to resist popular temerity, and, on the contrary, at another time strengthened the part of the people against the kings to keep them from usurping a tyrannical power.”1
Thus, there is nothing new, and a large republic is impossible because there has never been a large republic. As to the representative system that some believe is capable of solving the problem; I feel compelled to make a digression which I hope I will be forgiven.
Let us begin by noting that this system is in no way a modern discovery, but a product, or, to put it better, a part of feudal government when it reached that point of maturity and equilibrium which rendered it, on balance, the most perfect the world had ever seen.2
Having formed the communes, the royal authority summoned them to the national assemblies; they could only appear there by their proxies; hence the representative system.
In brief, it was the same with the trial by jury. According to the hierarchy of tenures, vassals of the same order were summoned to the court of their respective suzerains; hence the maxim that every man ought to be judged by his peers (pares curtis):3 the maxim which the English have retained in its broadest meaning, and which they have since developed; but the French on the other hand, less tenacious, or yielding perhaps to overwhelming circumstances, have not developed it to the same extent.
One would have to be quite incapable of penetrating into what Bacon called interiora rerum [“the interior of things”] to imagine that men could have raised up such institutions by anterior reasoning, or that they could have been the fruit of deliberation.
Moreover, national representation is not particular to England; it is found in every European monarchy—but it is alive in Great Britain; elsewhere it is dead or it slumbers. It does not enter into the plan of this little work to examine whether it has been suspended to the misfortune of humanity, and whether it would be advisable to approximate ancient forms. It is enough to observe from history (1) that in England, where national representation has obtained and retained more power than anywhere else, it is not mentioned before the middle of the thirteenth century;4 (2) that it was not an invention, nor the result of deliberation, nor the result of the action of the people exercising their ancient rights; but an ambitious soldier, in order to satisfy his particular views, in reality created the balance of the three powers after the battle of Lewes, without knowing what he was doing, as always happens; (3) that not only was the convocation of the Commons in the National Council a concession of the monarch, but that in the beginning the king named the representatives of the provinces, cities, and boroughs; (4) that, even after the Commons had arrogated to themselves the right to name their representatives in Parliament during Edward I’s sojourn in Palestine, they had only a consultative voice; that they presented their grievances, like the Estates-General in France, and the formula for the concessions emanating from the throne as a result of their petitions was constantly: granted by the King and his spiritual and temporal lords, on the humble prayers of the Commons; (5) finally, that the co-legislative power attributed to the House of Commons is still very new, since it scarcely goes back to the middle of the fifteenth century.
If we therefore understand by this term “national representation” a certain number of representatives sent by certain men, taken in certain towns or boroughs, by virtue of an ancient concession of the sovereign, we need not quarrel over words—such a government exists, and it is that of England.
But if one wishes that all the people be represented, that they should be represented only by virtue of a mandate,5 and that every citizen, with a few physically and morally inevitable exceptions, should be capable of giving or receiving these mandates; and if it is claimed that the abolition of all hereditary distinction and offices is to be joined to such an order of things—then this representation is something which has never been seen, and which will never succeed.
America is here cited to us: I know of nothing so annoying as the praises heaped up on this babe-in-arms: let it grow.
But to render this discussion as clear as possible, it must be noted that the fathers of the French Republic must not only prove that perfected representation, as the innovators put it, is possible and good; but also that the people, by this means, can retain their sovereignty (again, as they put it), and form, in their totality, a republic. This is the crux of the matter; for if the republic is in the capital, and the rest of France is the subject of the republic, it is not accountable to the sovereign people.
The most recent commission charged with deciding on a method for of national representation has estimated the number of Frenchmen at thirty million. Let us grant this number and suppose that France keeps her conquests. Each year, according to the constitution, two hundred and fifty people will leave the legislative body and be replaced by two hundred and fifty others. It follows that if the fifteen million men that this population assumes were immortal, skilled as representatives, and nominated in order, then invariably each Frenchman would, in his turn, come to exercise national sovereignty every sixty thousand years.6
But since, in such an interval, men will surely die from time to time; and since, moreover, some men will be elected more than once; and since some in a host of men will always be disqualified, by nature and good sense, from national representation, the mind boggles at the prodigious number of sovereigns condemned to die without having reigned.
Rousseau held that the national will cannot be delegated; we are free to agree or disagree, and to debate these academic questions for a thousand years. But what is certain is that the representative system directly excludes the exercise of sovereignty, especially in the French system, where the rights of the people are limited to naming electors; where not only are the people unable to give special mandates to their representatives, but the law takes care to sever all relations between them and their respective provinces, warning them that they are not sent by those who sent them, but by the nation; a splendid word, infinitely convenient because we can make of it what we wish. In a word, it is impossible to imagine legislation better calculated to destroy the rights of the people. Thus, that vile Jacobin conspirator was quite right in saying during a judicial inquiry: “I believe the present government a usurper of authority, a violator of all the rights of the people, whom it has reduced to the most deplorable slavery. It is the frightful system of the happiness of a few, founded on the oppression of the masses. The people are so muzzled, so bound in chains by this aristocratic government, that it is becoming more difficult than ever for them to break them.”7
So! What does the empty privilege of representation matter to the nation when it is so indirectly involved, and when millions of individuals will never enjoy it? Are they any less estranged from sovereignty and government?
But they might say in rebutting the argument, what does it matter to the nation if the privilege of representation is empty, if the resultant system establishes public liberty?
This is not the question; the question is not whether the French people can be made free by the constitution given to them, but whether they can be sovereign. They change the question to escape the reasoning. Let us begin by ignoring the exercise of sovereignty; let us insist on the fundamental point that the sovereign will always be in Paris, and that all this claptrap about representation means nothing; that the people are thoroughly estranged from government; that they are more subject than under the monarchy, and that the term large republic is as self-defeating as square circle. Now, here is an arithmetic demonstration.
The question is therefore reduced to whether it is in the French people’s interest to be subject to an executive directory and two councils instituted according to the 1795 constitution, rather than to a king reigning according to ancient forms.
There is much less difficulty in resolving a problem than in posing it.
It is therefore necessary to discard this word republic and speak only of government. I will not examine if it is fit to produce public welfare; the French know this well enough! Let us see only if, such as it is, and by whatever name it is called, it is permissible to believe in this government’s permanence.
Let us first raise ourselves up to a height that befits the intelligent being, and from this elevated viewpoint, let us consider the origin of this government.
Evil has nothing in common with existence; it cannot create, since its power is purely negative: Evil is the schism of being; it is not true.
Now, what distinguishes the French Revolution, and what makes it a unique event in history, is that it is radically bad, no element of good comforts the eye of the observer; it is the highest degree of corruption known; it is pure impurity.
On which page of history shall we find so many vices acting at the same time, on the same stage? What an appalling assemblage of baseness and cruelty! What profound immorality! What forgetfulness of all shame!
The childhood of liberty has characteristics so striking that it is impossible to mistake them. In this age, love of country is a religion, and respect for the laws a superstition; character is strongly pronounced, morals are austere; all virtues shine forth at once; parties work toward the profit of the country, because the only dispute is over the honour of serving it; everything, even crime, bears the mark of greatness.
If we compare this picture with that offered by France, how can we believe in the persistence of a liberty that takes its rise from gangrene? Or, to speak more precisely, how can we believe that this liberty can be born (since it does not yet exist), and that from the heart of the most disgusting corruption can emerge this form of government possessed of more virtues than all others? When one hears these so-called republicans speak of liberty and virtue, one imagines a faded courtesan putting on the airs of a virgin with blushes of rouge.
A republican journal has reported the following anecdote about the morality of Paris:
A case of seduction was pleaded before the Civil Tribunal; a 14-year-old girl astonished the judges with a degree of corruption matched only by the profound immorality of her seducer; more than half of the audience was comprised of young women and girls; of these, more than twenty were no more than thirteen or fourteen, with several beside their mothers; and instead of covering their faces, they laughed with relish at the necessary but disgusting details which made the men blush.8
Reader, may you remember that Roman9 who, in the halcyon days of Rome, was punished for embracing his wife in front of his children; draw your own parallel and conclusion.
The French Revolution has, no doubt, gone through a number of phases; yet its general character has never varied, and even at birth it showed promise of all that it would become. There was a certain inexplicable delirium, a blind impetuosity, a scandalous contempt for all that is respectable among men: a new kind of atrocity that joked about its crimes; above all, an impudent prostitution of reasoning, and of all words meant to express ideas of justice and virtue.
It is difficult to convey a sense of the feeling one gets in looking at the acts of the National Constituent Assembly in particular. When I think back to the time of its meeting, I feel myself transported as the sublime English bard into a cerebral world; I see the enemy of the human race seated in the Manège,10 and summoning all evil spirits to this new pandemonium; I distinctly hear il rauco suon delle tartar trombe [“the dreadful blast of the infernal trumpet”];11 I see all the vices of France answer the call, and I am not so sure if I what write here is allegory.
And once again, note how crime serves as the whole basis for everything. This republican scaffolding, this word citizen, which they have substituted for the ancient forms of civility, they apply to the vilest of humans: it was in one of their legislative orgies that the brigands invented this new title. The republican calendar, which should be seen not only in its ridiculous aspect, was a conspiracy against religion; their era dates from the greatest crimes ever to have dishonoured humanity; they cannot date an act without covering themselves in shame, recalling the ignominious origin of a government whose very holidays make the blood run cold.
Must an enduring government emerge, then, from this bloody mire? Let us not draw a comparison with the ferocious and licentious manners of the barbarian peoples who have, however, become civilized: barbarous ignorance has undoubtedly presided over the establishment of a number of political systems; but learned barbarism, systematic atrocity, calculated corruption, and especially irreligion, have never produced anything. Greenness leads to maturity; decay leads to nothing.
Moreover, have we ever seen a government, and above all a free constitution, begun in spite of its members, and without their consent? Yet this is the phenomenon that would be presented to us by this meteor known as the French Republic, if it could last. This government is believed to be strong because it is violent; but strength differs from violence as much as from weakness; and the astonishing way it operates at this time is, by itself, perhaps proof enough that it cannot endure long. The French nation does not want this government, it suffers it, and remains submissive either because it cannot shake it off, or because it fears something worse. The republic rests on these two columns which have no reality; we can say that it rests entirely on two negations. It is, therefore, very remarkable that the apologists, friends of the Republic, do not bother to demonstrate its worth, they sense that this is the chink in their armour; they say only, as boldly as they can, that it is possible; and passing as lightly over this thesis as over hot coals, they are concerned only to prove to the French that they would expose themselves to the greatest evils if they should return to their former government. On this point they are most eloquent; they never cease speaking of the dangers of revolutions. If pressed, they would grant that the revolution which created the present government was a crime, as long as you grant that a new one is unnecessary. They throw themselves before the French nation; they beg her to keep the Republic. One senses in all they say about the stability of government not the conviction of reason, but the dreams of desire.
Let us move on to the great anathema that weighs upon the republic.
1 Plutarch, Life of Lycurgus, French translation by Amyot.
2 “I do not think there has ever been a government on earth so well tempered, etc.” (Montesquieu, Esprit des lois, Book XI, ch. VIII)
3 See the Book of Fiefs, following Roman law.
4 English democrats have tried to trace the rights of the Commons much further back, and they have found the people even in the famous Witenagemots; but they have had to gracefully give up such an unsustainable thesis. (Hume, vol. I, appendix I, p. 144; appendix II, p. 407; London, Millar, 1762)
5 It is often assumed, out of bad faith or inattention, that the mandatory alone can be a representative: this is a mistake. In the courts, the child, the madman, and the absent are represented every day by men who hold their mandate only from the law: now, the people eminently unite these three qualities; for it is always a child, always mad, and always absent. Why should its guardians not do without these mandates?
6 I am not taking into account the five places of Directors. For our purposes, the probability is so small that it can be considered zero.
7 See the interrogation of Babeuf, June 1796.
8 Journal de l’opposition, 1795, No. 173, p. 705.
9 [Manius Manilius. See Plutarch, Cato the Elder, 17.7]
10 [The venue for the deliberations of the National Constituent Assembly, and later the National Convention.]
11 [Torquato Tasso, Jerusalem Delivered, book IV, verse 3.]